


red flags and long nights

by zalachenko



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Depression, Rough Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 01:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zalachenko/pseuds/zalachenko
Summary: Moon x Guzma; loss-of-innocence sort of deal. Moon is 17-turned-18, and Guzma is in his early 20s and equally as immature/irresponsible. They’re a mess. Written as more of a rough character study outline, miiiiiiiight work on a more complete, continuation piece when Ultra SuMo comes out... If Nintendo gives us that sweet sweet Guzma content. BTW, give "Red Flags and Long Nights" by She Wants Revenge a listen. It/the whole album is pretty hot.(Also, spot the xNTJ writer. What are emotions?)





	red flags and long nights

**i.**

_she’s pretty and i like her but she’s too well_

_cuz i need red flags and long nights and she can tell_

  

The first time you see him is in Malie Garden. The weather is pleasant but the air is still, like the entirety of Alola is holding its breath; you exhale when you first lay eyes on him.

He skulks over the Johto-style bridge and up to Kukui, his imposing figure looming over the man: he's well over a foot taller than you. You approximate him to be in his early twenties; the way he carries himself and his demeanour give it away. the way he talks, the way he looks—wild (dyed) white hair contrasting with the black undercut, and how his grey hawk-eyes are shadowed by thick black eyebrows—is absolutely diabolical.

For a split second his eyes meet yours and you immediately look away, bashful.

(You're not blushing.)

“She doesn't look like Hala’s grandkid,” he drawls, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

“This is Moon, and she’s the most promising young trainer I’ve met yet,” Kukui says firmly, unfazed by the aggression the guy radiates. “Even more so than someone I used to know, _Guzma_.”

“Tch,” Guzma spits, his glower pointed at you now. “This move fanatic’s getting me all riled up. Why’re you even botherin’ with the island challenge, kid?”

“I’m not really sure, but that’s what I want to find out.” You’re thankful that your voice is level as you make even eye contact with him this time.

Before you can really think on it you’re battling, electricity in the air. However it’s quickly over when you beat him soundly, not without struggle. Golisopod is evasive and tricky, but Torrecat manages to narrowly defeat it nonetheless. Once all pokémon are returned to their balls, a hint of a storm flickers in his eyes as he tears at his hair and clenches his jaw. He grits his teeth through a “what the hell is wrong with you, Guzma?!”

But then it's like he was never angry, and the wolf's grin is back and pointed down at you. “Great work. I won't forget this, little girl,” he sneers.

You catch him looking you up and down before he’s off, swaggering away with the two grunts in tow.

Later that night that you find yourself hanging onto his _little girl_ , replaying the harmonies of his voice—the way he _looked_ at you—in your head as you come, sticky in heat, around your fingers.

 

**ii.**

 

_beginning with a look and then a smile_

 

The second time you see him is in Po Town: _his_ territory. 

After a while of sneaking around the Shady Mansion and creeping over the treacherous path on the balcony, you find yourself at the doors of his lair. The grunts stationed outside let you inside once you answer their questions, and you feel nervous when you're permitted to enter.

Your immediate impression of his room is that it's a shadowy mauve, dimmed by the single lamp in the corner. The smell of spray-paint, alcohol, and his distinct musk mingle in the air. You notice the bookshelves displaying large bottles (which are presumably the source of the smell), and the king sized bed shoved haphazardly in the corner next to the entrance.

You're standing across from him in somewhat of a showdown: he’s sitting on his “throne,” literally looking down on you.

"It's not every day someone comes straight to me for a beating." He cocks his head and smirks at you.

You tell him you're here for Yungoos and not him; his eyes darken but the slit of his mouth widens.

"Tell 'ya what, princess—what was it, Moon?—I'll cut you a deal. My little friend doesn't need to come out," he flashes an ultra ball in his jacket sleeve (you assume it's his Golisopod that gave you hell at Malie). "You do me a favour, and I'll _do you_ one right back."

Yungoos's ball is in plain sight on top of his treasure trove of Buginium Z; you think about grabbing it and bolting, but there's no doubt he’d overpower you in only a few strides.

You can't resist him (you don't want to), you were doomed from the start. When you climb onto his lap, he grins.

You've lost the battle before it even begun.

 

**iii.**

 

_it’s not that it’s my fault it’s just my style_

 

“The first time hurts the most” is what everyone says, what everyone told you.

You'd be damned if they were wrong.

“How old even are ‘ya?”

“17.”

“Damn. You done it yet?”

You shake your head “no.”

He chuckles. “Well, you'll see who’s boss when I’m through with you.”

Guzma initially has a sliver of consideration for your inexperience.

His hand snakes its way into your shorts and past your panties; he takes his time, fingers gliding over your untouched folds and prodding at your walls. He stretches you out for a bit, his fingers feeling uncomfortable and tight inside of you. You're relieved when he moves to focus on your clit, and as soon as you're melting in his touch, he's smug in his secured victory over you. He’s gone as you squeeze your eyes shut ready to come, denying you of your first orgasm.

“Bed. Now.”

You’re disoriented in your haze of muddled pleasure and hot as his words force you to stumble down from his platform onto his bed, plopping onto the springy mattress. He makes quick disregard of his jacket and shirt, tossing the baggy garments unceremoniously onto the floor. The way he looks at you pointedly says “take off your fucking clothes” and you obey, feeling sheepish.

Your clothes join his at the foot of the bed, save for your underwear, the only garments protecting you from his hungry stare. You hug your knees to your chest, wanting to pull his purple comforter around your exposed skin.

“Shy, are we?” He chuckles as he brusquely points out your insecurity in the sitation, slipping out of his pants down to his boxers.

Gulp. 

He sees your reaction to the bulge in his underwear, and barks out a laugh, “Oh, this is gonna hurt so good.”

(The sizeable outline of his dick reassures you of this.)

You’re shoved back onto the middle of the bed as he gets on top of you, lips drawing to your jawline and down the column of your neck. He licks a stripe and bites down at a spot that earns him a slight, muffled whimper. You feel him grin against the sensitive spot of skin, and self-consciousness mixes with slow-burning arousal in the pit of your stomach. One of his large hands is planted firmly in your mop of black hair while the other one ghosts down your side. He stops at your underwear, snapping the fabric against your skin teasingly before pushing the garment down and off entirely. He grins when he sees how wet you are.

"I've got my work cut out for me, huh?"

He briefly stops to grab something from a box under the bed—you see that it's a condom, and he quickly tears the packaging open and slides it on his dick. Then he's positioning himself at your entrance, pushing the tip in.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

Your hole burns as it's stretched—his fingers barely prepared you—and you feel nauseous as there's suddenly a sharp twinge of pain as he goes deeper. Tears spring to your eyes, and you grab at the sheets and shut your eyes.

“Shh, it's ok.” He rubs your cheek reassuringly, and for a moment he actually sounds sincere. “‘Ya boy knows what he's doing.”

(You cling to that small gesture of tenderness for all it's worth.)

He’s—to your astoundment—fully sheathed now, and waits a moment before moving. His ministrations start off slow and he works at an even pace. It's uncomfortable, but after a bit you get used to the foreign feeling. He suddenly angles his cock to where he brushes a spot that resonates within you; an unexpected whine escapes your lips and he takes that as a sign that you're ready.

“Told ‘ya.”

His hand moves up to tangle in your hair again, and you're surprised when you're turned on by the feeling of it being pulled. He pushes your head into the mattress while the other hand is ghosting your clit, causing you to shiver. He picks up the pace and you can tell that he's enjoying the show as he grins and chuckles at every one of your reactions.

“G-Guzma…” you whine as you feel your abdomen tightening. 

You grab at his arms, and his pupils are blown dark as he takes in the mess that you’ve become beneath him. He comes in closer to bite at your neck, babbling reiterations of “that’s right” “you're so fucking tight” and “yeah, I’m the shit, come for me you little slut” between hedonistic grunts of nonsense.

He makes you come harder than you ever had on your own, earning him the pleasure of hearing the most embarrassing, shameful sound you've made in your life. Eyebrows knit together, face flushed and sweaty, you tighten and writhe around him as your orgasm washes over you. He comes soon after, finishing with a shout and pulling out as soon as he's worked through his own peak.

Afterwards you feel good and sore—a paradox you thought you'd never understand. He lingers only for a little bit, resting on an elbow to admire his handiwork on you: bruises blooming on your neck and hips, your disheveled hair and flushed expression.

But then his clothes are back on and he nods his chin at the Pokéball in the chest. “You're a lot of fun, sweetheart.” With a wink and a half-wave, he's out the door.

When you finally pick yourself up to leave, you notice that your blood is on the sheets.

(He makes it clear that there's no room for warmth.)

 

**iv.**

 

_i can find a reason that we should quit_

_i can find a reason to do it_

 

After that, Guzma is always rough enough to where you remember him for days.

(It turns you on, you’re hooked.)

He begins by marking you up, always peppering your neck and collarbone with new bruises while growling reiterations of “you’re mine,” “you’re such a little slut for me, Moon,” “you can’t live without this cock,” etcetera. He doesn't shut up and loses himself inside you, muttering incoherent things in your ear while he pushes you to your limits and beyond, earning himself your whimpers and moans.

When he's done, he either holds you tight, moulding your sex-sticky bodies together and passing out, or immediately puts his clothes on and is out the door like he was never there.

You thank god that no one cares in Po Town, or that your mom is usually off visiting family in Kanto to notice that you’ve had a visitor.

(It’s not like he cares if she just happens to be home, though.)

Your friends start to notice your bruises, and you can tell that they don't quite believe you when you say “it's no big deal.”

(Lillie gives you an odd look; Hau raises an eyebrow, seeing through your bullshit.)

But you enjoy your time with Guzma, after all.

  
  
**v.**

 

_you can occupy my every sigh,_

_you can rent a space inside my mind_

_at least until the price becomes too high_

 

After your battle at Aether Paradise, he's different—he's almost never sober. 

(The bottles and smashed glass swept to the corners of his room were a give-away from the start.)

You're more observant than you let on: it's Lusamine and what goes on behind the scenes. It's the burdens he carries, and you find yourself sympathising with him despite your better judgment.

But you remember one particular night being especially rough:

He shows up at your house with a half empty bottle of soju, words slurred together but intentions irresistible to you.

Soon, you're buzzed (by his persuasion) and he's drunk (by his own devices)—you're running warm while he’s blazing hot. But when he grabs a condom and settles down between your legs, he's struggling.

He fumbles with the packaging for a moment before saying, “ah, fuck it,” and tosses it aside.

“It’s ok, I’m on the pill—” Before you can finish he’s pushing himself in raw, and you let out a choked whine as it takes you by sharp surprise. (You _still_ aren't fully used to him.) 

A hand is shoved roughly, painfully, in your hair and the other on your hip with a vice-like grip—with his contrasting size and strength you know there will be bruises. He's moaning a slurry of "fuck" and "oh Arceus oh gods Moon you're so fucking tight.” The feeling is unlike any time with him before, adrenaline shooting through your veins at the added risk factor. You begin to lose yourself in how good his uncovered dick feels inside you, but are quickly sobered up.

“Guzma, you're being too rough—” your voice cracks as a yelp cuts you short.

He's slamming against your cervix and you wince, but then his fingers are working their magic on your clit. You start to see stars through the pain while this goes on, and you find yourself whimpering as you fall over the edge.

“Yeah, Moon, like ‘ya don't love this—FUCK!” he shouts and comes inside, collapsing half-way on top of you and not bothering to pull out. He's out like a Litwick, breath heavy from exhaustion tickling your neck, and body sticky with sweat.

You're left lying awake on your bed—the pain emerging triumphant from your quickly fading pleasure. Despite your intense orgasm, all you can feel are the dull aches all over your body, and the alcohol-induced dehydration and migraine beginning to creep up on you. His cum is dripping down your entrance, leaving you uncomfortable and sticky.

He’s sleeping like a baby with a toned arm draped over you, body too warm and close for comfort with how you're feeling. You watch him, examining his relaxed features and thinking about what he might be like if he took the time to actually talk to you outside of fucking.

(What it would be like if he cared.)

It's in that sleepless night that you realise he's using you. It's in the same stream of consciousness that you consider running.

But you stay anyway.

 

**vi.**

 

_she says that i’m a mess but it’s alright_

_whether it’s two weeks, two years or just tonight_

 

You’re not sure if it’s because of your realisation that causes the rift between the two of you.

You find yourself battling him and Lusamine—their camaraderie wasn't much of a shock to you, having suspected the lucrative Team Skull-Aether Foundation alliance.

(There's no way Team Skull had a steady income with how they lived, and the Aether Foundation seemed too good to be true.)

Guzma is whipped—you’ve never seen him as vulnerable to a person like he is to Lusamine. (Well, maybe Plumeria, but it’s not the same look in his eyes when he talks to her.) 

You avoid eye contact and instead focus on the battle, resulting in a strong victory due to your focus. Your team has always been a good counter against his, and was able to surpass Lusamine’s "beloved darlings’" strength in level.

Soon you're in Ultra Space and feeling nervous in anticipation with what's to come.

Somehow he's up ahead of you, but doesn't seem to really see you as you approach. He's shaking, and for the first time you see true fear in his grey eyes.

Despite his ego and stature, you see that he's small.

 

**vii.**

 

_she don't need a thing, she don't need saving or a lay_

_she’s got all the friends around and you can hear them say:_

_“he’s not into you he’s into the idea of,”_

_but little do they know that she’s not through_

 

A few months have gone by without word from Guzma, and you eventually learn that Team Skull has been disbanded. 

The silence is mutual: you haven’t reached out to call him, and he hasn’t made the effort to interact with you either.

(You don’t know if you’re scared of him, or for him.)

Initially, you feel empty and aimless because of his absence. You don't know what exactly to do with yourself; it's hard to focus or to find enjoyment in anything because all you can do is worry about him.

(Is it your fault he's gone?)

You miss the sex, and you miss the convoluted validation you got from his attention.

(You were special to him, right?)

One day Mom scolds you for neglecting your hygiene and health, as well as your pokémon. Another day Kukui calls to say that he's worried about you, and asks about your lack of activity towards the Pokédex. It's only when you think about Lillie and the hell she’s been through that you're being a piece of shit: you've probably caused her a similar sort of abandonment, especially after facing things that no eleven-year-old should experience.

You finally understand the impact your depressive state has had on those around you. Those who care about you; those who you've neglected to put first. 

You resolve to change.

To deal with the hole Guzma’s disappearance left in your life, you've taken the time to focus on yourself for improvement. You start to fiercely care for your pokémon again, making sure to be as attentive to them as possible. The difference it makes to their wellbeing is profound.

You resume the island trials again, slowly easing back into the routine of your life before Guzma.

Poni Island, you soon discover, is a blast; for the first time in what seems like ages you're having fun. When you meet Solgaleo with Lillie, you feel an unadulterated adrenaline rush as you meet a legendary pokémon for the first time.

It's new experiences like this that show you what you've missed.

Eventually you stumble under the title Champion of Alola, and it's like you've risen from the ashes. You're surrounded by supportive friends and now-coworkers/comrades, and finally feel a sense of purpose renewed after all that's happened. Hau is training with Hala, Lillie has left to explore the world, and Kukui and Burnet have discovered some exciting breakthroughs in their research of Ultra Space. (Their findings intrigue you, and you're vaguely reminded of something you once read about: the temporal and spatial legends of the Sinnoh region.)

You find yourself opening up to Olivia, and eventually others in the league. for once in your time living in Alola you truly feel like you’re at home, and that other people (who are not your mother or the professors) have actively bothered to give a shit.

Despite your now busy life, you occasionally find yourself wondering—even worrying—about Guzma. You contemplate tracking him down but ultimately decide against it, rationalising that he wouldn't appreciate the intrusion.

You try telling yourself that you're disgusted with the fact that you still care.

 

**viii.**

 

_it’s never hard to tell when things are done_

_she looked into my eyes and a voice said “run”_

 

It's always sunny in Ula’ula, and today you're in Hau'oli city. You had stopped by to get a malasada, and now you're standing by the beach looking out at the vastness of the Alolan sea.

Your state of serenity is interrupted as your hackles rise: you hear familiar footsteps behind you. 

"Hey." You turn around and see Guzma, who looks like he's gotten older. His twin skull tattoos are gone (you find it vaguely amusing that they were fake), and tell-tale skull chain is gone as well. He looks uncomfortable, but addresses you in the same blunt manner as he always has, "Moon, it's time you battle 'ya boy." 

You're still frozen, but you manage to nod, not knowing what to say to him. (Nor do you know what you _want_ to say.)

You can tell that he’s gotten stronger; he's more controlled in how he acts and battles—you narrowly avoid getting beat with one last fire blast by Incineroar. By the end you’re both sweating and breathing hard, and when he returns Golisopod to its ball his dark brows knit together and something is different. He doesn’t curse himself out, and he doesn’t pull at his hair.

He’s changed, and so have you.

You don’t want to give away that you had fun during your battle, and instead tell him a reserved “good game” as you pack your team back into your bag.

 _It’s for my own good_ , you try telling yourself as you begin to walk away, but being selfish has always gone against your intuition. You look back and he’s still standing there, looking at you as if he wants to tell you something. His lack of expression and usual brash theatrics is disconcerting.

Like your first encounter in Malie, it's as if the world is on hold for the two of you.

But then it's over when he nods at you, expression forcibly neutral, and turns to walk away towards Route 2.

You still don’t know what you wanted (or needed) to say to him, and that makes you feel unsatisfied.

 

**ix.**

 

_i can find excuses for all my shit_

 

You’re lounging around at home on your day off, looking up absently at the ceiling.

It’s only 10 a.m. and you’re bored: you don’t know what to do in your leisurely hours now that work takes up 80% of your time. Before becoming champion you moved through your trials at ease, exploring and meeting new people along the way.

You could walk your pokémon. You could visit the professor to see what's up. You could call Mom who's off visiting family in Kanto again. Or, you could…

Your hand drifts down into your shorts, starting to rub idly at the thin fabric of your underwear.

Then you remember Guzma. You remember when you first met him and your times together—how good he made you feel. (On a physical level, at least.) He was your first big crush in Alola, your first time, and the first person you had wrongly romanticised.

You shake your head and pull your hand away, the will to get yourself off having diminished.

You try to force yourself to stop reminiscing, but now he’s all you can think about.

You vaguely wonder what he’s up to. When you last saw him, he was off from his usual demeanour. Something in Ultra Space had disturbed him (which as a result made you and alcohol his comfort toys), and he was never the same. You think about how he looked at Lusamine like a god—like a mother, even—and how drastically his world had crashed after she was ripped away from him. How you had felt jealous that he didn't look at you with the same level of respect and trust. How he had lost his mind in the fallout, and how he vanished for months up until your recent battle. 

You never understood him; you realise with shame that you never bothered to get to know him. Why was he the way he acted? What did he enjoy in life besides sex? What was his family life was like? It couldn’t have been great if he turned out the way he did…

“Family…” you’re thinking out loud, but suddenly everything clicked and you bolt upwards from your lazing position on the couch. “Oh shit.”

The house on Route 2.

 

**x.**

 

_she tells me just to work right through it_

 

At the beginning of your journey, you remembered stopping at a random house on the way to Mallow’s trial.

“I tried to set that boy of mine straight… but I was the one who got beat,” you recall the man inside saying, a melancholy expression washing over his face as if he was remembering a painful memory. The room in the back of the house looked untouched for years: there was an empty desk, a vacant bed, a shelf with dusty trophies on display, and a stereo with hip-hop CDs stacked on top… 

Guzma.

And now you find yourself on Route 2, trudging up the hill with the house in sight.

You're nervous when you climb the porch steps to knock, but do it anyway. It takes a few minutes for the door to be answered (you considered leaving), but when the man opens it he looks surprised.

“Hi,” you begin awkwardly, twiddling your fingers nervously. “Uh—hi, I’m Moon. The champion.” You shuffle your feet, not knowing how to ask this person if his son could possibly be the infamous gang leader of Team Skull.

“Yes, I remember you,” he says, equally as puzzled. “What can I do for the esteemed first Champion of Alola?”

You vaguely pick up on his sarcasm, but ignore it.

“I’m looking for someone—I was wondering if you knew someone…” You trail off as you catch sight of Guzma standing in the background, peering past the man to see who was at the door. His eyes widen as he sees you. “Actually, I’ve found him. May I come in?”

The man raises an eyebrow and glances back to look at what distracted you. He pauses for a moment, as if considering what to do. Finally, with a laboured sigh, he opens the door wider. “Fine.”

“Guzma,” you step inside timidly, clutching at the bag which held your trusted team. “We have a lot to talk about.”

**Author's Note:**

> College procrastination has reached a new level. Instead of working on my projects... I fucking finished a fanfic, whaaaaaaaat???????? I started writing this in, like, May-June so it's had some time to stew. ~ Zala


End file.
